


Fault Lines

by commoncomitatus



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F, Scars, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-03
Updated: 2015-06-03
Packaged: 2018-04-02 16:44:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4067251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/commoncomitatus/pseuds/commoncomitatus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An intimate moment in an intimate moment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fault Lines

—

Her body is a constellation of scars.

Countless and nameless, they tell stories without words, a lifetime spelled out in patterns and lines and shapes. Criss-crossing welts branded across her back, her shoulders; half-moons bitten into her palms, her knuckles; slashes and sears cut through her arms, her thighs; a curve running from ribs to navel, a circle carved out from her calf. Impossible to number them all, but the temptation to try is unbearable.

Cassandra has seen more than her share. Of scars, yes, but of Sera’s body as well. She is, after all, the one tasked with patching her up every time the tide of battle turns against them; there is no shortage of danger in their line of work, and Sera is adamant about avoiding healers. _‘No magic,’_ she insists, and ignores the call of common sense; she would sooner spend a week in agony than a minute in the care of Vivienne or Solas, and no amount of argument or reasoning is enough to change her mind. Cassandra indulges her more often than she should, because she cannot bear to see the pain twisted into terror; _‘no magic,’_ a chant like a prayer, and so it falls to her to keep Sera bandaged and stitched and alive.

Without a doubt, some of these scars bear her name.

Those moments are terrible, her heart in her mouth as she fumbles to stem the tide of blood, the tide of panic, the dozen little tides that rise up when it happens. Inevitable, yes, and nothing she has not seen a thousand times, yet still it strikes her almost dumb. Blind, panicking, desperate to keep from thinking, focusing in on the task because it is all she can do. A spell searing the skin, a blade in the belly; Sera has endured both since she joined the Inquisition. Even just thinking of them makes Cassandra’s own blood run cold, makes her veins freeze within her. She cannot think of scars when she is healing fresh-flowing wounds, cannot allow herself the luxury of wondering what her handiwork might look like in five years’ time. She can only focus, try not to look too hard at the damage already burned into her body, and do what little she can. _‘No magic,’_ Sera says, again and again and again… but _Andraste_ , it is difficult to honour that wish when her skin and her clothes and the ground are all stained red.

It is a difficult task to mark her scars in moments like that, knowing as she does that she is adding another, but they are far from the battlefield now, and here in her bed it is as easy as anything Cassandra has ever known.

She does not ask questions. She does not need to. Sera’s scars tell their own tales, wordless whispers that vibrate against her skin, her lips. Cassandra knows what it means when she kisses along her ribs, down over her waist, when her tongue catches in the shapeless slash across her hip and Sera flinches. She knows what it means when she buries her face in her shoulder, hair tickling the little triangle at the crook of her neck and Sera gasps, shudders, whimpers. She knows what it means when she crests the curve of her breast, when her thumb brushes the faded white crescent there and Sera’s fingers clamp down hard around her wrist. She hears the words Sera cannot say, _stop_ and _please_ and _not there_ ; she hears and understands, recognises the things her body remembers.

Sometimes it is difficult. Sometimes _stop_ means the opposite, and she does not realise. Sometimes _please_ means _no_ , and she is too slow to make the connection. Sometimes she gets it wrong; Sera never gets angry, but sometimes she gets lost. Sometimes the world stops around her, and it is as though she disappears, gazing off at some distant point, leagues and years and away. Sometimes she chokes on the tears she refuses to shed, and sometimes she chokes on her breath as she sheds them all, face buried in her elbow so Cassandra will not see. Sometimes she does none of those things, continues as though nothing is wrong at all, and Cassandra aches to believe her but the tremors in her body give her away. It is so painful when those things happen, because there is nothing she can do but wait and hate and know that it is her fault.

It is doubly difficult because Sera is so joyful. She delights in everything, and her laughter is infectious; Cassandra has never met anyone with such wild abandon, has never known anyone to be so wicked and so beautiful, so violent and so vibrant at the same time. Indeed, she has never known anyone like Sera at all. Sera, who wears her heart upon her sleeve, even when it contradicts itself, who bares her teeth when she smiles, who clenches her jaw when she cries and clenches her fists when she comes. _Sera_ , with a soul that speaks such a different language to her body.

For now, body and soul, all she has to say is her name. “ _Cassandra_ ,” desperate and devastating, a shudder that skitters across the skin.

Cassandra does not offer the same in return. For all that they are, for all that she feels in moments like this, it is simply beyond her. There are times when she wishes she could, when the name is so close to the tip of her tongue it almost hurts, but still she does not say it aloud.

It is one thing to imagine it, perhaps even to wish for it in her more romantic moments. It is one thing to trace the constellations branded on Sera’s skin, to wonder at the way her body moves, the strange language that whispers its stories, but it is another thing entirely to trace her name, mark its meaning, to acknowledge that this is not simply something that happens, that it is something real, and that she cares.

She thinks it sometimes, it the corners of her mind. _Sera_ , a gift to herself, but it can never be more than that. The breath between them is so fragile, so delicate, and she is so very afraid.

Fingers tangle in her hair, bring her back to the present. Sera, breathless, whimpering against her neck, her jaw, the scar on her cheek. “ _Cassandra_ ,” like a challenge, and Cassandra wishes she had her courage.

She is intoxicating when she is like this. Gasping, clinging to the places that Cassandra has kept to herself for so long. Sera is unashamed, unapologetic; she is not afraid of being vocal, of being crude or lewd or rude, and she is certainly not afraid of being herself. Cassandra has never been any of those things, least of all _herself_. In public, she must be Seeker Pentaghast, and she has all but forgotten how to shed that skin in private. It has been so long since she had the freedom to do so, to indulge herself like this, and it enthrals her. _Sera_ enthrals her.

Everything about them is different. Cassandra kisses slowly, tender and tentative and thoughtful; Sera kisses hard and fast and with more passion than Cassandra knows what to do with. She does not simply kiss her; she _devours_ her, wanton little noises against her lips, her tongue, teeth sharp against the corners of her mouth. It is like nothing Cassandra has ever known, nothing she ever imagined she would want.

At her heart, her soul, Cassandra is a romantic, and this is anything but romance. It is raw, unfettered; it is heat and lust and countless other things she used to swear she would never indulge. It is _Sera_ , and all the tasteless parts of her that turn Cassandra’s stomach, that make her disapprove. It is _Sera_ , and though she knows it should repulse her, it does not.

She cannot remember why it began, and she cannot forget when. An arrow through the shoulder, clean but brutal; a crisp white bandage soaked red in minutes. Sera hissing, growling, wild and feral and impossible; Cassandra begging her to listen to reason. _‘A simple spell can end this,’_ she said, pragmatism coloured over with pleading, but Sera only punched her for her troubles, flailing with the arm that wasn’t bound. _‘No magic,’_ she snarled, violent, vicious, hating herself for being so afraid. _‘No magic, no magic, no magic.’_

Cassandra held her through the night. No-one else would go near her, but Cassandra was not afraid. Sera howled for hours, drenched with sweat; she bit her shoulder, clawed at her skin, and Cassandra allowed it because it stopped her from crying. It was too long since she last saw someone like that, too long since she was last forced to mend a wound without magic. Too long since she allowed herself to think of people like Sera, people who were not Seekers, who were not warriors and could not fight as she did. Too long since she thought of anything beyond _right_ and _righteous_ , and when Sera leaned in, choking on another scream, she kissed her until neither of them had the strength to scream at all.

She marked her scars one by one. Methodical, practical, she memorised the ones that made her gasp and shudder, the ones that made her fingers clench and her body rise, the ones that said _victory_ and _triumph_. The first one she found was a knife-wound, shallow but long, and Sera’s moans as she laved it with her tongue told her that it was a good fight.

The next three were not good fights. They did not say _victory_ or _triumph_ , and when Sera shuddered it was not with pleasure; her body twisted, unbearably tight, and her throat gagged on garbled nonsense sounds. She flinched on the first, bit her knuckles on the second, and on the third she gave Cassandra a black eye.

 _Never again._ She did not say it, but Cassandra heard.

She asked once. Only once. Post-coital and thoughtless, she traced the jagged zig-zag crossing Sera’s collarbone and murmured, _‘Where did they come from?’_

Sera closed her eyes. _‘Life,’_ she said, and turned away.

Cassandra has not asked since, and she never will. Even Varric would concede that some stories are best kept secret, and Sera’s body tells tales her tongue cannot.

Like now, for example. Her body is writhing, heat and need and taut muscles; it paints a clear enough picture, even as her tongue is trapped, stuck chanting “ _Cassandra_ ,” over and over and over.

Cassandra hears both, the demands from her body and the whimpers from her tongue, and she responds in the only way she can, the only way Sera will allow. She swallows down the whimpers, breathes in the whispers, paints promises with her own tongue to silence Sera’s. She doesn’t speak the word, the name, but she allows herself to think it, allows Sera to taste it, to seek herself out against the roof of her mouth, to find some small part of what Cassandra feels, the way her heart aches in tandem with her body.

Sera is laughing when she pulls away. Face flushed and hot, eyes bright, she is a vision of lust and want, but when Cassandra licks her lips she recognises salt.

 _Sera,_ she thinks, but she cannot say it, cannot turn the abstracts of physicality and pleasure into something real.

She laughs again. Bold, brave, beautiful, but the brightness in her eyes is unnatural and uncomfortable; Cassandra recognises this too, marks the moment the laughter breaks, and captures it in another kiss. Bruising, brutal, the kind of kiss that Sera would give, the kind of kiss that burns in her chest and makes her feel strange new things.

A gasp, a moan. “ _Yes_ ,” once and then again, lost to the back of her mouth; she holds Cassandra so close, so tight that she worries her ribs will break.

She moves with her eyes closed. It is like following a path she has taken a thousand times before, knowing instinctively which places to avoid, which to seek out. Her fingers find their footholds as they have so many times before; these places are familiar and comfortable, curves and lines and dents, good wounds won in good ways even when they healed badly. She feels the callouses, the scars she knows are safe. A knife-edge slashed across the shoulder; Sera thinks of victory when she grips it tightly enough. The burn from a long-extinguished flame seared on the swell of her hip; she smiles and thinks of warmth, safety, a fire that burned a little too hot. These are the scars that she earned herself, the ones that bear her name.

Sera breaks the kiss, panting, and Cassandra pretends she does not see her face, does not see the sweat on her brow, or the salt on her cheeks that is not sweat at all. She pretends she does not see anything; this too, she has done countless times, a different path but just as familiar. A kiss to her throat, a second to the edge of her ear, a reminder that she does not care how sharp they are, how large, and Sera chokes because _that_ is too intimate.

Cassandra keeps moving, does not give her time to dwell. She keeps her hands where they are, locked tight around the good memories, the strong ones, but lets her lips wander freely, lets them go where they will. Sera does not intervene; she buries her face in the sheets, though, and Cassandra knows that it is more to hide her features than to muffle her voice. She does not care who hears, here or anywhere else, but she is so ashamed of being visible while she is being touched. If Cassandra would allow herself to feel, it would break her heart.

She does not. Instead, she distracts them both. A kiss to Sera’s throat, the scar nestled at its base. A prick, nothing more, but it must have bled terribly to have left such a mark so many years later. She does not linger, too afraid of what will happen if she started to question, to wonder. The questions are innocent enough, yes, _where_ and _when_ , but they never remain that way. Soon _where_ becomes _‘what happened?’_ and _when_ becomes _‘how young?’_ , and those are not innocent at all.

She does not want to know the answers. She is too afraid.

And so, she moves on, down. Feather-light touches to the lines scratched into her arms; long and thin, pale and very strong, and _yes_ , she recognises them, and _no_ , she will not ask that question either. She will not hear it said aloud, will not indulge such a thing. She hesitates at her wrists, kisses upon kisses to the heavy welts that circle round and round, the faded burn of ropes pulled too tight, and again she forces herself to move on before her mind can wander, wonder. Not _where_ this time, or _when_ , but _why, why, why_ …

Callouses on her fingers, archer’s fingers, and Cassandra licks along the edges, wets the tips, savours Sera’s little gasps. It is an invitation, and of course Sera recognises it. She accepts it as well, as Cassandra knew she would, slipping her fingers into Cassandra’s mouth, callouses and scars rough against her tongue. Cassandra closes her eyes, feels her own breathing quicken, and when she hears Sera’s voice above her, it is rough and hoarse and unfathomably far away.

“ _Cassandra_ ,” again, and “ _yes_ ,” and “ _yes_ ,” and “ _yes_.”

Sera is not like Cassandra. She is eager, enthusiastic, and when she pulls her fingers free she does not hesitate. Cassandra has maps scrawled across her body as well, scars and battle-burns and countless other things she cannot and will not hide, but Sera does not care; she has never been one for the scenic route, and she certainly does not take it now. Perhaps she is afraid in her own way, or perhaps ashamed; Cassandra has earned her scars, all of them, fought and bled and won. To her, they all mean _victory_ , all mean _triumph_ , and she wears them as the trophies and medals they are. There are no rope-burns on her body, no long thin lines that tell terrible tales, and Sera’s touches will never make her flinch.

Cassandra’s scars all look the same to Sera. They are all war-wounds of one kind or another; what difference does it make if it came from a mage or a templar, a dragon or a druffalo? There is nothing interesting, nothing new, and so she passes them by as though they were not there at all. It makes Cassandra feel inferior sometimes, as though her wounds are worth less than Sera’s, as though all her battles amount to naught in the moments that matter, but at the same time it makes her feel appreciated. Perhaps, if she were idealistic about it, it makes her feel loved as well, the idea that Sera does not care _what_ she is, only _who_ she is, that she wants only the woman, not the warrior. There are too few in the world who look at her that way.

She cries out when Sera’s fingers find their target. They are wet, but she is wetter, and when she looks up to find Sera’s face, still tangled in the sheets, she sees that it is wet too.

She does not acknowledge that; neither of them do. Sera’s voice rings, a laugh that breaks. “Right Seeker, you.”

Cassandra laughs as well, strained but soft, a feint at making it easier for them both. _Sera,_ she thinks, and aches down to her soul.

Gentleness does not come easily to Sera, but she tries nonetheless. Cassandra can feel the effort, the way she holds back, the tension in her fingers when she slides inside. She is so violent in everything she does, and perhaps with another lover she would be violent here too, but she knows that Cassandra has had enough of violence for both their lifetimes; tenderness is a struggle, every thrust a lesson in stroking instead of striking, but she tries, she tries, she tries. Cassandra is grateful for that, and her body shows its gratitude in its own way, clamping down and squeezing until Sera cries out as well.

It makes Cassandra chuckle, the sound; her breath is as rough as Sera’s, but the flash of humour grounds them both. She finds her breast with her lips, smiles against the skin as Sera gasps, and her tongue draws circles in rhythm with Sera’s fingers. Once, twice, and just the faintest of touches to the nipple on the third, repeating over and over again. Pleasure upon pleasure for them both, and it is entirely too easy to get carried away in moments like this, entirely too easy to lose herself to the sweetness, the sensation, to the wet slide of Sera’s fingers, the tension in her own muscles. It is too easy to lose herself in all of that, too easy to forget where she is and who she is with, and her lips drift down before she can think to stop them, finding the familiar scar, the faded white crescent that crests the curve of Sera’s breast, small and simple and—

Sera freezes.

Cassandra’s heart seizes too, but it is her body that holds control. It is more than she can do to control the involuntary twitch, the way she tightens around Sera’s fingers. It is selfish, yes, but she cannot stop it; she knows what this means, the sudden stillness, the way Sera’s breathing turns ragged, knows that it hurts, and she hates herself for making it worse, hates that she is too close to stop, too close to block out the sensations, to stop her body from reacting.

Sera does not say anything, does not move. Cassandra cannot find her face through the tangle of sheets, but she can see the knuckles of her free hand, white and shaking where she grips the fabric; she can hear the shift in her breath as well, a hitch and a catch turning to shudders that have nothing to do with pleasure or passion or Cassandra.

 _Sera_ , she thinks, and hates herself all the more because the word will not come, because her throat closes up and her voice betrays her, hates that all her body will allow is a whimper and a moan, hates that Sera does not know, might never know how desperately she wants to reach out, how desperately she wants to _connect_ , to bring her back from whatever dark place has a hold of her.

More than anything, she hates how quickly the moment passes.

It is easier, perhaps, for Sera to recover; Sera, who knows what she is feeling, who knows everything. But to Cassandra, a hapless witness, it is painful. Just a moment, nothing more, a sudden stillness and a choked-off breath, but it feels like a lifetime when they are together like this, when Sera’s fingers are frozen inside of her, when Cassandra is trapped by the whims of her body and the fears of her mind, helpless and hopeless and not good enough. Only a moment, yes, but Sera leaves it behind far more quickly than Cassandra can.

She cannot describe how it feels, the intimacy of it. In one moment, Sera’s fingers are completely still, just the faintest hint of a tremor, painful and telling, and then scarcely a heartbeat later they are not still at all. It is all gone, the freezing, the tremors, the ragged choke when she tries to breathe. It is gone, just like that, and she is moving again, stroking and sliding and _there, yes, there_ , as though nothing happened at all, everything exactly as it was a moment ago.

Well, _almost_ exactly; there is a flicker of her trademark violence in her movements now, the violence she usually holds in check for Cassandra’s sake. She is still not quite herself, it seems, still not quite present. Cassandra wants to speak, to do whatever she can to bring Sera back to herself, to do _something_ , but her body is so much louder than her brain, and Sera’s fingers are so insistent.

She comes with a cry she cannot hold back, her own fingers digging bruise-deep into Sera’s hip and shoulder, into the places she knows she is still allowed. Her climax is powerful, and Sera is an expert in drawing it out, making it last, keeping her helpless; for a few long moments, Cassandra can do nothing but gasp and writhe and _feel_ , and when it is over her lungs are too empty to shape the words she so desperately wants to say.

Sera does not give her the chance to find her voice. Perhaps she is afraid of what she might say, afraid that Cassandra will break the rules, put these things into words. Perhaps she is simply trying to convince herself that the moment never happened, that it was a lapse of attention and nothing more. Perhaps it is both of those things; whatever the reason, she is far too quick to sit up, far too quick to let the sheets fall from her face, and far too quick to let Cassandra see her smile.

“Good, yeah?”

It is an admirable effort. Her smile looks almost sincere, and she has schooled her voice completely; she sounds so self-satisfied, so _smug_ , that Cassandra would almost be inclined to believe her. But no, she cannot ignore the truth any more than Sera can conceal it from the one place she does not think of; she has not removed her hand, and it gives away too much. Cassandra can feel everything: the tremors in her fingers, still inside, the unsteadiness in her palm where it presses, the restless tapping of her thumb against the junction of her thigh. It is difficult enough to keep secrets from a Seeker at the best of times, but here as they are, naked and wet and tangled together, it is impossible.

Still, she plays the game, because it is what Sera wants. “Indeed.” Her voice is hoarse, and her muscles ache, and it is not what she wants to say at all.

 _Sera_. Again, she thinks it, and again and again and again, but still she cannot…

“Good.” She pulls her fingers out without warning, sharp and just a little violent, and Cassandra hisses as it sends another jolt through her. “Proper good, yeah?”

Cassandra swallows, sighs. “Indeed,” she says again, and it sounds so hollow.

Sera grins, a show for both their sakes. She studies her fingers, slick and wet, reaches up to touch herself without bothering to clean them off, two fingers pressed to the faded white scar at her breast. Cassandra watches, mouth dry; it is deliberate, she can tell, as though she is trying to wash away the memories that made the mark in the first place, the moment that made her freeze, as though she is trying to cover her own pain with Cassandra’s pleasure. The sight makes her ache, make her long to ask those forbidden questions, _when, where, why_.

She does not, of course. She has sworn to herself that she never will, and now is not the time to change that. For both their sakes, she holds her tongue. Instead, aching, she cups Sera’s face, pours as much of her tenderness as she can into the contact, all those words she cannot say, and leans in to kiss away the wetness she finds on her cheeks; it is a very different kind of wetness, bitter and stark and tasting of salt, and they both know where it has come from but neither of them will ever say it.

Sera just laughs, of course. It is her way, Cassandra knows. Conflict frightens her, and so she counters it with humour, crude and offensive; she calls Cassandra all manner of names for her troubles, _sappy_ and _romantic_ and _silly_ , as though those things were insults. Cassandra does not see them that way; there is no shame in romance, though that is not this, and there is certainly no shame in an appropriate measure of silliness. In any case, insult or not, she will not be goaded into stopping. They may not speak of it, but the truth remains, bitter and salty, and she will not shy away from it no matter what Sera says.

In this case, what Sera says is, “You’re pretty when you come.”

She bares her teeth as she says it, like a challenge, leaning back to display her whole body. It is a strange paradox, Cassandra thinks, how easily she exposes herself now. Just moments ago, she was covering her face, hiding from just the thought of Cassandra’s eyes finding hers; now, she shows off every line on her body as though there were nothing unusual in it at all.

For her part, Cassandra is already glancing at the sheets, looking to wrap herself back up, cover the shame of what they’re doing, what they have done. This is so easy, so natural, and yet she still finds herself uneasy when the euphoria wears off, when it is simply the two of them and their nakedness. It is not personal; she simply does not fit well in her own skin, does not feel comfortable with her physicality, with the way Sera looks at her, the way she looks down at herself. Certainly, she is not comfortable with sounds she makes when Sera is inside of her. It is all still so new to her, so strange and embarrassing, and though it steals her breath, the way Sera looks at her, it makes the chaste young Seeker inside of her ache to cover herself completely. Strange, the contradiction between them: Sera hides when she is being touched, and Cassandra hides when she is not.

“Oh?” she says aloud, because she is a Seeker and she will not give in to her fear. “You are the one to say such things, and yet _I_ am the romantic?”

“Yeah.” Her voice catches on the word, and she lets her hand fall from her breast, grips the sheets until her knuckles tighten, until the skittering scars across their surface stand out as white as death. “Yeah, you are.”

“I beg to differ,” Cassandra says, but it is no easy task to keep the smile on her face.

Sera shrugs, moves on as though the conversation never happened. It is typical of her, Cassandra thinks; she grows bored of everything so quickly, rushing on to some unrelated nonsense seemingly without warning, and Cassandra often finds it hard to keep up with her. Everything about her changes so quickly; on some occasions it is daunting, on others simply confusing.

For now, she does not speak. She reaches out with her other hand, the clean one, touches Cassandra’s face with a strange kind of intensity, thumbnail tracing the deep dark line across her cheek.

Another scar, and one that is not so easy to hide as the rest. As little as Sera seems to care for most of Cassandra’s war-wounds, for some reason this one seems to fascinate her; sometimes she will spend hours simply following the line with her finger, back and forth, over and over, mouthing soundless words to herself as though under some sort of spell. Cassandra has never thought to ask why she finds it so interesting, though she suspects it has something to do with its brazenness; it is utterly inescapable, a challenge worn like Qunari vitaar across her face. To someone like Sera, who keeps everything tucked away beneath her clothes, it must be fascinating indeed.

For now, it seems she is content to give it only a cursory glance. She traces it a few times, smiling to herself, then cups the back of Cassandra’s head, guiding her back to her breast with no small amount of command.

“What—”

“Shh.” Sera’s eyes are dark, heavy; she is biting her lip. “Don’t talk, yeah? Just… if you want… if you…”

She does not force her to make contact, allowing Cassandra to make the decision for herself, and when she does, leaning in to press the faintest of kisses to the edge of that crescent scar, this time she does not freeze.

The reaction is still there, though, thrumming beneath the surface; pressed against her like this, Cassandra can feel the tremors beneath the skin, and she knows that it is not as simple as Sera would have them both believe. They are so close, so intimate; she can feel the way her breathing quickens, can feel the instincts clashing within her, the need to flinch and the desire not to. It is not the first time she has allowed this, not the first time she has let Cassandra into these corners of herself, the darkest moments in the palest scars, but it is the first time she has made a point of it, made it an invitation. It is the first time they have acknowledged such a thing together.

It is the first time, as well, that Cassandra has kissed Sera’s body and tasted herself.

“Pretty, yeah?” Sera’s voice is shaking, and Cassandra closes her eyes because she does not wish to see. “You’re so frigging _pretty_.”

A compliment, yes, but it hurts. Cassandra shakes her head, pulls away, fights to keep from shaking as well. There are so many things she wants to say, so many feelings that frighten her. She wants wants to return Sera’s shallow compliment in kind, wants to take Sera’s face in her hands, kiss her and call her beautiful, call her strong and brave, tell her that she can hear the stories her body tells, confess to her that she is enthralled. _Sera_ , she wants to say. More than anything, _Sera_.

Instead, she says, “I am no such thing.”

Sera laughs. It is a brittle sound, as though she is holding herself together by a thread, as though every part of her were as old and ripped and worthless as the clothes she wears, the rags she will not part with. It makes Cassandra ache, makes her want to pull her in, hold her close and swallow the sound, replace it with moans and sighs, makes her want to promise that she will hold her together in the moments when her laughter breaks. Foolish notions, yes, and futile, but there are few things she would not give to offer them.

“You talk too much,” Sera says after a while. “Gonna have to do something about that.”

Cassandra does not look at her. She thinks of scars, the battle-burns on her skin and the strange street-map patterns on Sera’s. She thinks of the stories they tell, the way they speak without words, wishes that she could do the same.

“Yes,” she says, and kisses the crescent on Sera’s breast.

This time when Sera tries to laugh, it shatters into a sob.

Cassandra does not speak. She takes her cues from both their bodies, Sera’s shudders and the ache that rises in her own chest. She does talk too much, it is true, and so now she does not talk at all.

Sera’s tears do not last. They seldom do; even when she is injured, howling her pain into her sleeve, the emotions are brief and fleeting. Cassandra has never understood how she can live in such a way, thrive as easily as she does; she is a firestorm, a hurricane in one moment and a port of perfect calm in the next, and Cassandra cannot fathom how she can survive with so many things inside of her. Her own ordered mind would break under such conditions.

It is a blessing in moments like this, though. A choked-off torrent of tears, a sob and a gasp, and the moment is gone. Extinguished in a heartbeat, just like before.

“Stupid,” she says; it sounds like an explanation, as though Cassandra would ever ask for such a thing. “Stupid and stupid and _stupid_ …”

Cassandra shakes her head, silences her with tears in her eyes. She brushes the faded white crescent with the edge of her thumb, notes the way Sera’s breath grows shallow, the way she bites her lip and does not cry. She does not want to hear this story, and in any event she does not need to; she has read it with her lips, and she reads it again now with her skin. What good would it do to twist it into something tangible?

“It is not stupid,” she says, and captures Sera’s lips to silence any argument.

Sera responds with her usual violence. She does not even try to restrain herself this time, taking control with teeth and tongue, command and demand; she takes what she wants, one hand at the back of Cassandra’s head, pulling her in and keeping her close, the other taking her by the wrist, drawing her away from her breast, away from the scar, dragging her down and down and _down_. Cassandra’s fingers are clumsy, tripping over lines and angles, catching on the other scars, the safe ones, but Sera does not allow her to linger; she covers her hand, drives her on. There is hunger in the way she kisses, heat in the pressure of her palm, her fingertips, hurt in the slickness they find together when they slip lower. There is so much in her, so much, and Cassandra is overwhelmed.

“ _Yes_.” A plea against her lips, her tongue, the back of her mouth. “ _Yes_ ,” and “ _yes_ ,” and “ _Cassandra_.” She does not stop kissing her, does not allow Cassandra to stop either, and her hands are as strong as anything Cassandra has ever known, the one in her hair driving her forward and the other driving her down, pressing lower, deeper, _inside_ —

She cries out, a keening sound that is dangerously close to a wail, and her teeth cut through the skin on Cassandra’s lip.

Cassandra ignores the pain, the promise of blood, ignores everything. She breaks the kiss when Sera gasps, turns her head to the side, touches her cheek with her own. Sera’s eyelashes flutter against her skin, and Cassandra smiles, lets her feel the contour of her scar, the wound exposed on the side of her face. Sera bites down again, this time on her own lip, to stifle another cry or perhaps another sob. Her body speaks where she cannot, fingers tight as she pushes on Cassandra’s knuckles, hips lifting, body tight, another story without sound, another whisper without words. _More. Please. More._

She releases Cassandra’s hair, fists the sheet instead. Her scalp stings, but Cassandra ignores that too, lowers her head, finds her breast once more. She kisses the faded crescent scar again, and then again and again, keeps time with the rhythm of her fingers, of Sera’s palm, of the way she clenches, the hitch of her breath, the tension in her muscles.

Sera is uncharacteristically quiet when she comes. A drawn-out moan, a flurry of gasps, and that is all, clean and complete. Cassandra does not dare to look up, afraid of what she might find if she does; she can feel the tremors all through Sera’s body, and she knows that it is not simply the pleasure that makes her tug at the sheets, not simply the euphoria that catches in her throat, not simply the orgasm that clenches and clutches and clings.

She does not want to ask, does not want to know, and so she balms the moment as best she can, kisses on kisses on kisses, burning away the bowstring-tension in her body, the shudders and the soundless stories seared into her skin, her scars—

Sera stops her.

Breathing hard, she cups her neck, pulls her away from her breast, up to her collarbone. The scars there are safe, criss-crossing zig-zags that make Sera smile. Cassandra rests her jaw against the surface, turns her head to look up. It hurts, meeting Sera’s eyes, but she will not flinch. There are so many things she cannot do in here, so much she does not dare, but when Sera looks at her she will always look back.

“We’re good, yeah?” It is not a question, not truly, but Cassandra nods anyway. “You and me.”

“You and I,” Cassandra corrects, before she can stop herself.

Sera rolls her eyes; bright, wet, but it is almost a relief to see the defiance in them. “You and _me_ , yeah? We’re good. And you…” She whistles through her teeth, a short sharp hiss sucked in where it should be blown out, a distraction disguised as a compliment. “You’re getting good, too. _Proper_ good, you know what I mean?” She waggles her eyebrows, or attempts to. “Quick study, you are.”

Cassandra snorts, plays along because it is simple. “Hardly,” she says. “You are simply… easily satisfied.”

“Oh, yeah.” She does not try to laugh this time, but the huff in her throat is dry. “Good thing for you if I am, innit?”

She is always like this. Even when things are difficult, she smiles and shrugs and pretends everything is normal; even when she cannot laugh, she rolls her eyes and waggles her brows. Cassandra understands, of course — avoidance is, after all, a natural reaction, and all the more so in someone as wilful as Sera — but it frustrates her sometimes as well. They have been doing this for so long now, and the part of her that is romantic and silly, the part that struggles to reconcile her beliefs with her feelings, is desperate for more.

It is the same part of her that wishes she could speak her name, wishes she could make it real, make _this_ real; she is not strong enough or brave enough to acknowledge it, to breathe her name on the air and make it tangible, make it hers. _Sera, Sera, Sera_. She need only say it, and she knows that she would be hers as well, and the part of her that aches for more aches for that as well, aches to spread herself open, not simply her legs but her heart as well, aches to take Sera’s face in her hands and confess that she is only complete when they lie together like this.

Their relationship is not a simple one. That is part of the allure, certainly, but it is part of the frustration as well. Sera is more open with Cassandra than anyone else in the Inquisition; she always has been, and it is no coincidence that she is the only one allowed to see her like this, that she is the one who binds her wounds when she refuses magic, that she is the one who undresses her in the darkness, who kisses the scars that no-one else knows. It is no coincidence at all.

Sera is very vocal about her sexual preferences. Women, of course, and of a particular breed; tall, strong, commanding, her ‘type’ — as she so eloquently puts it — fits Cassandra’s name perfectly, but it is more than that. It is that Cassandra does not _understand_ , that their worlds are so far apart. Sheltered safe Nevarra is a great distance from the dirty streets of Denerim, and they both know it. Even if the subject were less delicate than it is, Cassandra could not possibly fathom the life that made Sera’s scars, could not possibly know the context of the stories that shimmer under her lips, the tales she reads with her fingers, the words that die unspoken on Sera’s tongue.

There is a kind of comfort in that, she knows, and it works both ways. Sera does not care that Cassandra is a Pentaghast, does not care whether she slays dragons or not, does not care that she has a claim to the Nevarran throne, and she does not care about her scars. Cassandra wears them proudly, the brands of war, of dragon-slaying, of heroism, but Sera passes them over in her haste to be elsewhere, in her hurry to focus on _here_ and _now_ and making Cassandra cry out. She does not want someone to idolise, no more than Cassandra would want some charming young noble’s son to take her hand and make her an honest woman.

There is nothing traditional in what they do, what they are. The very idea of it would make her uncle weep, and there is an intimacy in their differences that makes her want to do the same.

Sera does not cry outside these sheets. Oh, she makes enough noise for an army, shouting and swearing and kicking up a fuss at the slightest little thing, howling and screaming when she is injured, as wild as any dragon; her cheeks burn hot with tears, yes, but she does not _cry_. Not in the way she does here, lips wet with salt, eyes bright, chest shuddering where Cassandra presses her kisses. She would never allow their friends to see her like this, and she certainly would not allow them to touch the places that Cassandra has touched, to share the moments when she shakes, to feel the way she freezes and understand why. She would never allow them to see, to read the words she can’t say, the stories carved into her skin, would never allow them to find the answers to questions they will never ask.

Cassandra understands that. She knows what she cannot know, what she cannot understand. She does not wish to know more than she already does, does not wish to reopen old wounds, only wishes to mark the places where they were, the knife-edge and the rope-burn and the criss-crossed zig-zags. She wants to memorise Sera’s body, memorise her stories without ever asking for them to be told. She wants so much, and Sera is so open, so incredible, so many things Cassandra cannot say.

And _yes_ , she allows it, allows her. She allows Cassandra — her, and no-one else — to read her past, to mark her scars with trembling fingertips, to swallow down the moisture on her lips, to taste the salt and know what it means. She allows her to kiss the curve of a crescent scar with fingers pressed within her, allows her to feel the moment she freezes and flinches, to share it all and never question why.

 _Life_ , she called it, the one time Cassandra asked. And yes, it is. _Life_. Sera’s life, mapped out in mottled colours, branded forever in the places she hides from everyone except Cassandra. Countless, nameless, but she knows them as intimately as her own. Faded shades of red and blue and black, Denerim alleys and Val Royeaux corners; she will never ask again, but she can map out every word as clearly as anything. A constellation of scars, a galaxy of passion, of pain, of pride, of _life_ lit up beneath her skin, and in these moments it belongs to them both.

“You and me,” Sera says again. Her lips are trembling, but her smile is familiar. “You and me. We’re good, yeah?”

Cassandra holds her close, covers her body with her own, a bandage for the wounds she cannot heal.

“Yes,” she says. “Yes, we are.”

—


End file.
